


In Heaven

by halloa_what_is_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Care-taking, Claustrophobia, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: There was a kindness lurking behind Sherlock’s cool demeanour which at times melted the coldness in his grey eyes and made them glow golden.Sherlock loved Mrs Hudson, that much was obvious. He would have laid down his life to protect her, had in fact several times. He appreciated Lestrade and Molly and trusted them with his life. He had clearly given up with Mycroft, but there was something deeper between those two. Let them call it sibling rivalry, the main thing was Mycroft was and always would be there for his brother.The only thing John couldn’t figure out was how Sherlock felt about him.





	In Heaven

**7 minutes**

“I am not getting in there.”

“Shush! They’ll hear us!”

A clatter from the next room told them that ‘they’ were indeed in hearing distance.

John’s hand went to his gun. He was breathing heavily and his posture was rigid. Sherlock, however, was the image of a rubber ball bouncing around. He tried to grab John’s arm again.

“Get _in_ ,” he hissed.

John shook his head, eyes glued to the open door. One of the torch lights shone through it, sweeping along the floor. He could hear the clicking of the expensive shoes of the very dangerous mafia killer getting closer. He was probably the one carrying the very large machine gun. His gait sounded that much heavier than the others’.

“ _Get. In_.”

Sherlock, having given up on trying to push John in before him, had stuffed himself uncomfortably in one of the large wooden crates. He could barely stand straight and his elbows were pressing against the sides uncomfortably.

The mere thought of having to get in with him made John’s skin crawl.

“Look, I’ll find another hiding place. I can hide behind one of the boxes ---“

“There isn’t _time_ ,” Sherlock hissed. “And behind is where they always look. It will take a moment for them to look _in_ one, and by then Lestrade and the others will already be here.”

He grabbed John’s arm and pulled, making him trip. He looked over his shoulder. The sweep of the torch light from the other room was getting bigger and ever nearer. He had to decide soon whether being stuffed into a box for a short while was better than getting shot full of holes.

Being a smart man, he chose the first.

And cursed his choice the moment Sherlock closed the lid. There was a distinct _click_ of a metal bolt sliding into a lock, silence, and a second later the voices of their perpetrators filling the room.

“Did it just ---?”

 _“Shushhh_!” Sherlock hissed.

They listened to the sounds getting closer, angry orders being shouted, people rummaging the crates surrounding them, then sounds of footsteps moving to the next room.

John wondered how long it would take them to remember that the mighty big box hadn’t yet been filled with illegal firearms and shouldn’t in fact be closed and locked.

Probably a lot longer than it would take him to start hyperventilating.

Sherlock’s phone chimed in his pocket and a faint light lit up the insides of the box. Sherlock moved his arm so that John could see the screen and the text from Lestrade.

_“ETA 7 minutes.”_

Help was mere minutes away and the adrenaline in his veins began to wear off in the prospect of not having to survive alone for long. Soon, someone would come barging in, take care of the thugs and they could go home.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

_Not now, not now, notnownotnow._

He tried to even his breathing, tried to remember what he used to do in these situations, what he had been taught to do, what he had taught others.

_Keep breathing regularly, don’t panic. Dontpanicdontpanicdontpanic._

Sherlock noticed. Of course he did.

“Are you claustrophobic?” he whispered.

“No, I’m not,” John snarled. “I’m getting-stuck-in-a-tiny-cupboard-also-known-as-upright- _coffin_ -with-a-bastard-who-forgets-that-the-springs-are-on-hair-trigger-and-the-box-locks-from-the-outside-phobic!”

He took a staggering breath, leaning his forehead against the _still closed and locked_ door of their prison and tried not to faint.

Sherlock’s hands brushed against his shoulders.

“Might not be a good time to touch me now,” John whispered.

“When I was three,” Sherlock whispered back, “I was at my cousin’s birthday party and four of the older boys locked me inside a chest. It was a big house, lots of rooms, and the chest was in a storage room at the back of the house. One of the boys sat on it and started to kick the side.”

“How exactly is this supposed to help me?” John panted.

Sherlock’s hands moved up and down from his neck to his shoulders.

“I don’t know whether it was me crying so hard or some telepathic brotherly power, but Mycroft found and saved me.”

John made a very mouse-like noise when he heard the sound of the expensive shoes returning, but they continued right on without stopping to inspect the room again.

“How?”

“He was big for his age and he had been itching to put his karate lessons to use.”

John chuckled quietly, though through his gasping it sounded more like a hiccup. Sherlock’s hand slid into his hair.

“He beat the boys up. Didn’t break anything, none of them even bled, but he scared them so thoroughly that even now when we see them at Christmas they treat him like a king. You should see them grovel. I don’t think it hurts that he is now the British government and able to audit one’s company whenever he feels like it and fake one’s tax records convincingly if he wants to, but I also believe strongly that the image of an 11-year-old screaming in Japanese lives on.”

A crash and hurried footsteps from outside their prison informed John that Lestrade had arrived, obviously running straight into the thugs running around the warehouse. John hoped dearly that the man with the machine gun didn’t get a chance to shoot all the Yarders before they could free him and Sherlock.

Sherlock continued the story, still whispering.

“All the other mums were manic, screaming at Mummy about manners and god knows what. She pretended to be awfully sorry, then took us home and bought us a bag of Jelly Babies a-piece, telling us how bad we had been and winking all the while.”

John let out another hiccup. Sherlock’s fingers moved to the sides of his head and John’s knees buckled. Outside, the noises of gunfire he had dreaded had still not arrived, so maybe the police had had the element of surprise on their side and the criminals were safely in handcuffs without a drop of blood spilled.

A moment later, he heard the distant shouts of “Clear!” echoing through the warehouse.

Sherlock continued quietly.

“When I was five and a half…”

He had no reason to whisper anymore, no bad guys to hear him and it would indeed have been very nice to let Lestrade know where they were so they could _get out_ , but Sherlock just continued his story on how he had accidentally fallen into a well and how Mycroft had practically bungee jumped in to rescue him, always the protective big brother.

A moment later, they could hear Lestrade’s voice calling out nearer and nearer, eventually right next to them in the room. Sherlock, instead of making their presence known by raising his voice, banged gently on the side of the crate, his other hand still lodged in John’s hair.

Running, metal bolt sliding free, and then Lestrade was wrenching the crate open, worry edging his face until he saw that neither of them were dead or even bleeding.

Then he saw John.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t shout,” Sherlock ordered, pushing John out and lowering him gently to the floor. “He’s just in a bit of a shock. Only a tad. Just a minor case of claustrophobia. He’ll be all right.”

Wondering why Sherlock was blabbering instead of explaining in his usual fifteen-miles-a-second way (and still not letting go of his head), John allowed himself to be manhandled without any fuss, concentrating on remembering how to breathe normally now that he was out of the hellish box. He didn’t mind though. Both Sherlock’s fingers and his calming voice made it a lot easier to fight off the panic and just slip comfortably into a haze.

 

 

//

**7 hours**

There was a kindness lurking behind Sherlock’s cool demeanour which at times melted the coldness in his grey eyes and made them glow golden.

He tried so hard! Every day he made an effort to fit in, to be pleasant, and every time he was shot down. By Anderson, by Donovan, by that arsehole Dimmock who didn’t even take his hand when they met in Eddie Van Coon’s flat. John was eternally grateful that he shook hands with Sherlock that first time on the steps of 221.

But then there were times he didn’t even have to try and just went by instinct. Like the one time they happened to arrive home at the same time, and John saw Sherlock from across the street, taking an old woman by the arm and helping her cross the busy street.

Sherlock loved Mrs Hudson, that much was obvious. He would have laid down his life to protect her, had in fact several times. He appreciated Lestrade and Molly and trusted them with his life. He had clearly given up with Mycroft, but there was something deeper between those two. Let them call it sibling rivalry, the main thing was Mycroft was and always would be there for his brother.

The only thing John couldn’t figure out was how Sherlock felt about him.

 

 

After the incident of being locked in a crate, fainting and waking up in his own room, Sherlock’s fingers once again in his now very sweaty and dirty hair, John had thought that maybe Sherlock did care. More than usual, that is. Which, in Sherlock’s case, meant he offered to make John tea the moment he woke up, ranting about the medical staff at the crime scene, and that was that.

“Overprotective paramedics,” he muttered at the kettle.

He made John’s tea just so, with the perfect amount of milk and sugar, and even gave him a saucer so he had somewhere to lower the cup since the coffee table was filled with more detritus than usual.

Which was why, a week later, they ended up in a prison cell.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, not really. It wasn’t his fault that the bric-a-brac on the table included a priceless pearl necklace stolen from a duchess’s bedroom some months back and which had found its way to Baker Street by pure accident. The thief had obviously tried to hide his loot. The hiding spot ended up being a stuffed alligator, an incredibly rare stuffed alligator. Which belonged to a professor the thief was working for. Who happened to be very good friends with Sherlock and had promised the alligator to him when he died. Which happened very conveniently some weeks after the break-in. And while the thief hadn’t had the chance to get his hands on the alligator after he stuffed it full of pearls, Sherlock stumbled upon them by accident two days after receiving his gift.

By dropping his favourite reptile on the floor as he was cleaning the table.

The alligator split open like a pillow, and John and Sherlock were left standing over pieces of crocodile, stuffing and the shiny pearl necklace which Sherlock was on his way of taking to the Met when he ran into a constable, dropped the parcel with the pearls in it and was then arrested by the over-eager constable who - like everyone else in the force - recognised the pearls the moment he saw them.

Real bad luck was the fact that John happened to be running next to Sherlock so he was immediately arrested as the accomplice and both of them were taken in and locked up with no one to bail them out.

“It’ll take some time for the news to reach Lestrade and even longer for all the paperwork to be sorted out,” Sherlock said, lying supinely on the only cot in the cell.

“How long exactly?” asked John. He was pacing the cell, counting the tiles as he went.

“I’d say about seven hours, considering. You won’t have an episode, will you?”

John stopped.

“A what?”

“This cell is considerably larger than the crate we hid in ---“

“Got trapped in.”

“Hid in---“

“Because of _you_.”

“Larger than the crate we accidentally with no fault of mine got stuck in for mere minutes, but if the cause of your claustrophobia is not the lack of space but the lack of doors and windows...”

John shivered.

“It’s the lack of space. So don’t worry. I’m not going to faint on you.”

He stopped counting the tiles and walked to the cot. When Sherlock didn’t move, he nudged the arm that was hanging over the side with his knee.

“Budge up.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Don’t look at me like that. I am not staying standing up for seven hours.”

“I was exaggerating, John. There is no way we are spending more than maybe two here.”

Three hours later John had fallen asleep against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock himself was bored out of his mind. Continuing John’s earlier task of counting the tiles had not proven to be a long-term way to kill time, so he had been calculating how long a line they would make and how much plaster had been required to put them in place. He was on his way to concluding how many Lestrades standing on their heads would fit in the room when John startled awake.

He groaned.

“Are we still here?”

“No, John,” said Sherlock, starting on his next calculation, how many Lestrades would it take to fill the room if they were all on their hands and knees. “We were let out an hour ago and I carried you into a taxi and up the stairs to Baker Street without you waking up. It just so happens that I enjoyed this cell so much I carried you back here, still without waking you up.”

John smacked the back of his head gently and yawned, then winced. His shoulder clearly hurt after sleeping so uncomfortably, but he didn’t say anything. Sherlock stopped counting Lestrades and stood up.

“Lie on your stomach,” he said, taking off his jacket and laying it on the cot.

“Excuse me?”

“On your stomach. On the cot. Like this.”

Sherlock lay down on the floor for a second and jumped back up. His voice was like a flight attendant’s giving the emergency demonstration before the plane took off.

John did not feel calm at all.

“Why?”

“I’ll give you a massage.”

For a second, John saw the image of himself lying face down on a hard cot in a cell with Sherlock bending his arms and legs behind him like they were made of rubber.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, John!” Sherlock pleaded. “I’m bored, and it’s all your fault!”

“How the hell is it _my_ fault?”

“Instead of taking a taxi, you wanted to have a jog to the NSY.”

“Because _you_ insisted on taking one after jumping in to a manhole, and now none of them will take us!”

It had taken hours for Sherlock to wash the smell and filth from his hair, and his dry-cleaner had predicted that the Bellstaff would never be the same.

John swore he could still smell the sewage water sometimes.

Speaking of which...

He leaned down to sniff the jacket Sherlock had intended to use as his pillow.

“I told you to get rid of that! It still smells like shit – _literally_ – and you wanted me to stick my face into it!”

Sherlock had seen his chance and taken the opportunity to use John’s moment of sniffing to grasp his arms and was now trying to bend him back down on the cot.

John made a sort of sitting down pirouette, struggling so forcefully that instead of shaking Sherlock’s iron grip loose, he managed to tangle his feet between his legs.

And down they went.

John felt he had got a good kick in there somewhere, most likely on Sherlock’s arse. It gave him immense satisfaction, but not enough to reduce the pain of hitting his head on the floor and now lying on the cold tiles instead of on the cot.

He snarled at Sherlock who was still slightly disorientated from the kick to his backside and the fall to the floor, twisted himself again so that he could hold Sherlock by his biceps and pressed both his knees against his torso, trapping Sherlock under him.

Now the only thing Sherlock could move were his fingers.

His expression was priceless.

“Oh for goodness sakes, John! Don’t be such a child.”

“I’m the child? Me? I sure as hell didn’t start this tickling match!”

Sherlock wriggled under him. Very violently. Then he tried to free his arms by flexing his muscles, shaking his arms up, and with a last miserable attempt by trying to wrap his fingers around John’s wrists.

“I know you are very proud of having the longest digits in the world, but that is idiotic.”

“Helps me with the violin.”

They lay down calmly for a while, Sherlock pondering on a new plan, John concentrating on holding him down while counting the minutes to their predicted release.

“Oh my god, John! Behind you!”

“That’s the best you can come up with?” John snorted.

It was a mistake.

He should have just kept his full attention on holding Sherlock down. But the ridiculousness of the attempt to distract him had made him forget about Sherlock’s really rather long legs, which were now deftly hooked around his midriff and in the process of rolling him over.

With sheer stubbornness, he managed to hold on to Sherlock’s arms so that when Sherlock succeeded in his mission and peered down at him, that was really all he could do.

Peer.

And rock back and forth in midair like some very gangly and surprised-looking spring rider.

John was panting, the hit to the head finally kicking in and making him slightly nauseous after the tussle. Sherlock noticed this, his expression growing worried.

Before either of them could say anything, the hatch on the door suddenly opened and a policeman – clearly having heard the racket and come inspect – yelled at them,

“If you lovebirds don’t stop it right now, I’m gonna put you in separate cells with a lot less enjoyable company!”

The hatch slammed shut and they heard the shuffling of footsteps retreat.

Sherlock untangled his legs and John let go of his arms. They sat down on the floor, leaning against the cot. John really wanted to throw the sewage jacket down the cell lav, but drained from all energy he just sat very still, the ache in his head like a steady drumroll.

 

 

When Lestrade opened the cell door four hours later, John was asleep once again with his head buried in Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock’s fingers combing gently through his hair.

 

 

//

**7 days**

John was lying in a bed with breathing tubes in his nose. John was full of pain meds. John was in hospital. John was shot, and Sherlock was very, very angry.

He hissed at the nurse who was trying to approach John’s bedside carefully, quite impeccably imitating a black viper trying to scare off a possible threat.

But the nurse was used to everything and even as impressive impressions as those of Sherlock Holmes did not work on her. She took a hold of John’s wrist, checked his pulse, inspected the numbers on the monitors, and did everything else she had done for the past five hours every hour on the dot.

“Any sign of discomfort?” she asked Sherlock.

“If you don’t count the two holes he has in his abdomen and the one in his arm, I’d say he is in tip-top shape,” Sherlock snarled.

The nurse put down her notebook and crossed her hands.

“The bullets only nicked his side and barely scratched his arm.”

“More like ripped,” Sherlock muttered, his hand involuntarily clenching John’s hard.

“And he is not unconscious or in a coma, as you know. He is only under anaesthesia and will wake up soon. You are here because of some very impressive friends who are very hard to say no to while under the strict understanding that you will maintain your calm so as not to disturb the other patients or your friend when he wakes up.”

The machines hooked to the rest of the patients in the recovery ward beeped in agreement.

“When he wakes up, he will want to see you before anyone else, I’m sure. He would have taken you to the surgery with him, if he could have.”

She leaned over John and patted Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t mess it up for him. It’s important he knows he is safe. So no histrionics, no yelling, crying or anything. Be neutral, be calm, be yourself.”

She patted away again. Sherlock watched her walk away, almost yelling after her that him being himself was probably the worst thing anyone could hope to see the first time they woke up from a surgery they had had to endure after going through the experience of getting shot by a paranoid-schizophrenic murderer.

Whose aim – thank god – was not too good to begin with and which had been reduced significantly by him being off his meds, out of breath and scared pantless by everything and everyone.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket, followed by a shorter rattle that told him he had got yet another text message. Though eager to fish out the phone if only to tell everyone to go to hell, he did not dare to let go of John’s hand.

“Please answer it. I know you are dying to.”

Sherlock nearly fell off his chair and squeezed John’s hand into a death grip.

“Ow,” said John.

“Nurse!” bellowed Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes!” hissed the nurse all the way down the hall and to John’s bedside. Sherlock decided against asking her whether she was imitating a cobra or a common garter snake, being too busy kissing each of John’s fingers in his crushed hand.

“Stop slobbering over my hand, it aches.”

Sherlock ignored him.

John turned to the nurse.

“What’s my diagnosis? Will I live to see my hand dry again at least?”

“I'm afraid you have to endure him for a long time yet.”

She shone a light into John’s eyes, then asked him to move the fingers of his free hand.

“I can feel these ones too,” John said, waving his other hand slightly, Sherlock’s face going back and forth with it as he was still busy bestowing kisses on the knuckles.

The nurse promised a doctor would be round to check on him in a moment, then walked away again.

John turned his head back to Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped his kisses with a smack.

John smiled.

 

 

The doctor deemed John to be fine and promised that he could be released after a week spent in the hospital recovering.

Sherlock visited every day, coming in as visiting hours began and only leaving when the security came to escort him out. Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson also stopped by every day, but as reasonable people they coordinated their visits and never stayed for more than an hour.

Even though John appreciated their thoughtfulness for his recovery (even though by the end of each visit he was pretty exhausted), he was also about to die from boredom by day three.

Sherlock tried to keep him occupied and brought in playing cards and board games, books, John’s laptop and headphones, a Rubik’s cube, old medical texts from the 19th century, and a stuffed bat he thought John could use to snuggle. When the nurses saw this latest addition to the pile of debris covering John’s bedside table, they instigated a strict “No organic matter” policy. Sherlock huffed and puffed and pouted, but consented after the nurses pointed out that if this rule was not followed, it would be extended to bipedal Holmeses too.

So Sherlock decided to bring in the cases instead, since photos of organic matter (no matter how deceased) did not count.

Mycroft had pulled strings again and provided John with a private room, and so Sherlock was able to do what he did at home and put up one of his Walls of Horrors, provided that he covered the more gory pictures with a large whiteboard every time one of the hospital staff came in.

John lay in bed, browsing the details of the murder, occasionally making notes of something interesting, while Sherlock stood stock still in front of his wall.

They had been at it since breakfast, only John’s pen scratching on paper occasionally breaking the silence. When a nurse entered with lunch, they both startled at the sudden intrusion.

“You can go home tomorrow,” the nurse said cheerfully, helping John up to sit on the side of his bed, while Sherlock hurried to move the whiteboard in front of a photo of decapitated and dismembered 40-year-old stock broker.

“Too bad. I was beginning to like it here,” John said, sipping his soup. “Though the food is just as awful as it was when I worked here.”

The nurse left with a wink, and Sherlock sat down on the bed. He watched John eat the soup, then dug his finger into it to have a taste.

“Not the most hygienic way to ask someone for their food,” John slid the bowl across the small table and handed the spoon to Sherlock, who gobbled up the soup while John finished his bread and the small salad. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock almost bit the spoon in half.

“You know, stuck with you in a confined space is not as bad as I could have imagined.”

Sherlock’s teeth hurt.

John slipped the empty bowl from his grasp and took a hold of his hand.

“Wanna try in a small hotel room next? Perhaps somewhere warm and sunny, like Barbados?”

Sherlock snatched what was left of John’s lunch – a small pot of pudding – opened it and began to wolf it down, one-handed.


End file.
